Ladies' Man (11 page)

Ramada muttered something like "Idiot" and apologized to all offended listeners. This show was the best. I ran into the John, pissed fast and scooted back in. The heat was off and my goosebumps gave my skin the texture of quilted Baggies.

"… obviously on drugs, Rod, obviously just wants our attention, and I think people should
stop
calling trying to talk to her because she's nothing but a goddamn spoiled brat and if her parents knew how to raise children to begin with she'd be home in bed fast asleep and everything else anybody has to say on the subject is crap. Goodnight."

"Says fuckin'
you
!" I jumped up and shot out my jaw like motherfuckin' Mussolini. I fucking hated scumbag people like that. They should have their fucking lungs boiled in oil. I punched the palm of my hand. And they rule the world, those people. I took a long walk around the room. Ramada shrugged. "Swapline."

"I'm a mother and I think what that lady who just called said was cruet and stupid. Honey, if you're out there, don't listen to that. We all wish you well and we all love you. And Rod? I think you're doing a wonderful job and God bless you and
she's
crap!"

"Goddamn right!" I punched my palm again and got a terrific spasm at the base of my neck that fanned out in the shape of an inkblot down my spine and across my shoulders. I pretended my hands were someone else's—not La Donna's though. Then I felt this rush, this elation, this strength like something good was about to happen. I felt like something was rising in my mind. I was going to help that girl. The pain lifted from my neck like it had sprouted wings.

"Swapline." -

"Hey…" It was the girl.

"All right!" I was totally wired, ready to help. I was hunched over like a shortstop after the crack of the bat. Ramada sat up straight in his chair. Me and him. "Look, I'm okay now." She sounded beat. "I'm okay now. I freaked but I'm okay now."

Still hunched over, my head cocked up, I listened to her carefully. Checked out the mood of her voice.

Rod looked flushed and exhausted with relief like a cop who just delivered a baby in the back of a cab. "You sure?" He took the words right out of my mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm okay now. It's over…" She hung up.

Rod collapsed backward in his chair, slid his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his face. The phone rang but he ignored it. I felt like a tire with a slow leak. I collapsed on my bed. I was depressed, not high like I expected to be. The fingers of pain crawled back into my neck. Maybe the next suicide call was going to be from me. But I wouldn't be bullshitting.

"Swapline."

"Well, I'll be goddamned." Another middle-aged broad. "How's
that
for gratitude? She didn't even thank us for helping. Thank us for calling in, for worrying about her. I'm sick, just disgusted. Goodnight."

Ramada stared at his receiver in disbelief. I inflated to my feet. "You stupid…" My eyes were almost shut in hate, my chest felt sixty inches across. "Die!" I whispered.

"Swapline."

It was the girl again. She was sobbing. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything! I didn't…"

"Hey, hey, it's okay! It's okay!"

"No no, oh God, I didn't want to… I didn't."

"Hey, don't hang up! Don't…" Click. Buzz of dial tone.

"We had her!" I shook my fists at the TV, slapped my forehead. The noise that came from my throat was not of this planet. I was fucking out there. I sat on the floor in my underwear in front of the TV and dialed the number on the screen.

Busy busy busy busy…

"Please call back," Ramada was pleading into the cameras. "You had one grouch; think of all the people who
care
."

I kept getting busies. I punched the phone, smacked the receiver against the wall and kept dialing.

"Swapline."

A husky male voice. "Stop sucking up to her. She's laughing at us all."

"Swapline."

"I got a pair of Nordica ski boots I want to swap or sell for cross-country skis. My name is Larry and I'm at KI seven, five-six-nine-nine."

"Swapline."

I jerked back. Ramada was talking in my ear. My heart felt like a bee in a bottle. "Hullo?" My voice came at me from the TV along with a barrage of sonic squawks and flutters.

"Move back from your set." Ramada was looking at me through the screen. I nodded okay to him and hopped backward into bed. "Hullo?" Still the interference.

"Move back more."

"Sorry." I dropped to my knees on the other side of the bed and knelt, elbows on the mattress. I felt like a radio advance man in a foxhole. "Hello, Rod?" I couldn't get used to hearing my voice come at me from the television. Ramada wasn't looking at me. All my anger drained out in my confusion. "Hey, you know people have been calling and saying she's bad news, a junkie and such. Rod, could you look at me?" Ramada slowly looked up. "That's not right, because maybe she isn't gonna kill herself but she's lonely, you know? I mean lonely enough to call up a TV swap show in the middle of the night and ask for help. It doesn't mean dick if she's
actually
gonna kill herself, okay? you know what I mean?"

"That's true," Ramada in my ear. I could hear my breathing over the TV.

"Yeah. That's all." Click. Yow. I was sweating. My hand was glued to the receiver. I gripped my chin with my thumb and forefinger. How did all those clowns sound so coherent? I started playing back every word I said.

"Swapline."

"Yeah, Rod, you know that guy that just called?" My heart stopped. "It's assholes like him that make people kill themselves. I have a right to my opinion and no moron is gonna tell me not to."

"That's true."

-1 went into a numb stun. I gawked at the screen, my jaw on the floor. I felt betrayed, knifed. Then I shook the shit out of my head, grabbed the phone and dialed. Three busies, then:

"Swapline."

"You tell that bitch
she's
the goddamn moron and asshole, not me. She don't give a flying fuck if that kid lives or dies.
She
probably hates
her
kids, you know what I mean?" My voice yelled at me from the box. I started butting my head into the air. "Whatever happened to human decency hah?" I slammed the phone down. My kneecaps were chattering with tension. I yawned nervously and my whole body shivered like a loose window in a windstorm.

"Swapline."

"You tell that prick to go fuck himself!"

"Swapline."

"Fuck
you
, you cancer cunt! Fuck
you
!"

That was that The end. I vaulted over the bed and tried to turn off the TV, forgetting the remote control box on the night table. My fingers were too sweaty and I wound up pulling the plug by stomping on the wire. I walked around bumping into furniture, then I walked nose first into the edge of the bedroom door. I staggered back, whining in rage, grabbed a hammer over the bookcase and bashed the door like I was fucking Thor. My floor was littered with paint chips like confetti. I staggered into the living room. It was getting light out. "Goddamn fuckin' dammit! You! You! How can…" I realized I was snarling and screaming at the swag lamp over the dinette table. It was six in the morning. I hadn't slept, wasn't even tired, just withered and blown away. When I went back into the bedroom, there was Little Flower's number scribbled on the
TV Guide
. The phone receiver was still sweaty. My nose hurt like a bitch. What the hell. I dialed the number. It was busy. .

The alarm went off and I jerked upright Seven-thirty. I had snagged ninety minutes' sleep, but I didn't even remember getting into bed. I wasn't tired. La Donna's absence made the bed feel as springy as a diving board. I dropped my shorts and stretched. It was a nice, sunny blue day. I did a few toe touches, then my hundred and fifty, all the time fantasizing that La Donna was in bed watching with frustrated desire that rock-hard bitch of a washboard that some people might have confused for my stomach. No doubt about it, I felt energized, but I was pretty sure it was that speedy energy you get from being wired and sleepless. You could move like sixteen French acrobats but the minute you accidentally put your head on an even surface you would be gone for eight hours. I threw an Al Green jam on the stereo and pretended that that was me singing in some get-down club, shoulders hunched, face pinched, hittin' high whining notes and La Donna would be sitting there with some big momo from Duluth front row center. Whenever I broke up with a woman, she turned into a phantom, admiring audience for all my fantasies about myself. It could go on for years. At this point I had an entire peanut gallery watching me. I jumped in the shower after turning up the volume, came out, dressed to kill, a chocolate gabardine three-piece suit over an eggshell shirt, a cocoa and tan silk tie, and I looked most bad, most bad. I had a bowl of Country Morning granola, a hit of coffee, grabbed my case and headed out the door. I left my keys in the bedroom and when I went back in for them I noticed Little Flower's number. I felt like that was from two light-years ago, and I couldn't even remember the headset I wore when I saw fit to Jot that down. It was a beautiful day, and if I twisted my body out the window I could catch a glimpse of the Hudson. It was a new day. I got one of my mystical rushes of elation like a gigantic good news! headline on a
Watchtower
flyer. Something was most definitely in the air.

When I arrived at the diner, it was still early. Only Fat Al sat in back, smoking a cigarette and filling out his order sheet. Charlene sat at the counter reading the
News
and drinking coffee. I snagged the stool next to her.

"How you doin', kid?"

"Hey, Kenny." She didn't look up as she clucked her tongue and shook her head grimly. "Isn't that awful? Six kids."

I peeked over her shoulder. A school had burned down in Montana.

"Mr. Cheeseburger." I motioned to George for a coffee.

"How come you not sit in back? You no like boys no more?"

"Hey, George, you know the Greek national anthem?"

"Never leave you buddies' behind." He winked.

"Charlene, I didn't embarrass you in front of those girls yesterday, did I?"

"Whata you mean?" She scanned the paper.

"You know, when I said that thing."

"What thing?" She licked her thumb and flipped the page.

"You know, that thing you know, 'scuse me, girls…"

"Oh, no no no." She stuck out her bottom lip, pouted and checked out "Moon Mullins."

"Good, because I was a little worried, because I like you and you know I didn't want, I don't want…" Two soda truck drivers took a booth. Charlene got up and pulled out her order pad in one motion like a gunslinger. .

" 'Scuse me, Kenny."

What the hell was I doing? She was pushing fifty, probably had sixty kids and a steamfitter husband. I felt embarrassed and stupid. La Donna was out twelve hours and already I was looking for a replacement. Always, always, when in doubt, whip it out. Think, Kenny, think. I carried my coffee to our table.

"How you doing, Big Tune?" I slid across from Al and slipped my case under the table.

"Hey, Kenny." He didn't look up. I peeked a look at his totals. He had down $650 in orders for the last week. I pulled in four and a half and I was scaling the heights. He must have been giving head with every order of five dollars or more. He finished up, stacked and tapped his sheets even, slipped them into his sample case and gave me a smile like "Now, where were we?"